ctor had told him there was yet one chance for
his life. "Thar ain't a single thing!"

"Well, now, ain't that nice?" murmured Hitty, as she drew up the chairs.
"Come, Jason, supper's ready."

"An' Hitty, I'm goin' ter burn 'em up--them books of Hemenway's,"
continued Jason confidentially. "They ain't very good readin', after
all, an' like enough they're kind of out of date, bein' so old. I guess
I'll go fetch 'em now," he added as he left the room. "Why, Hitty,
they're--gone!" he cried a minute later from the doorway.

"Gone? Books?" repeated Mehitable innocently. "Oh, yes, I remember now.
I must 'a' burned 'em this mornin'. Ye see, they cluttered up so. Come,
Jason, set down."

And Jason sat down. But all the evening he wondered. "Was it possible,
after all, that Hitty--knew?"

Crumbs

The Story of a Discontented Woman

The floor was untidy, the sink full of dirty dishes, and the stove a
variegated thing of gray and dull red. At the table, head bowed on
outstretched arms, was Kate Merton, twenty-one, discouraged, and sole
mistress of the kitchen in which she sat. The pleasant-faced, slender
little woman in the doorway paused irresolutely on the threshold, then
walked with a brisk step into the room. "Is the water hot?" she asked
cheerily. The girl at the table came instantly to her feet.

"Aunt Ellen!" she cried, aghast.

"Oh, yes, it's lovely," murmured the lady, peering into the copper
boiler on the stove.

"But, auntie, you--I"--the girl paused helplessly.

"Let's see, are these the wipers?" pursued Mrs. Howland, her hand on
one of the towels hanging behind the stove.

Kate's face hardened.

"Thank you, Aunt Ellen. You are very kind, but I can do quite well by
myself. You will please go into the living-room. I don't allow
company to do kitchen work."

"Of course not!" acquiesced Mrs. Howland imperturbably. "But your
father's sister is n't company, you know. Let's see, you put your
clean dishes here?"

"But, Aunt Ellen, you must n't," protested Kate. "At home you do
nothing--nothing all day." A curious expression came into Mrs.
Howland's face, but Kate Merton did not seem to notice. "You have
servants to do everything, even to dressing you. No, you can't wipe my
dishes."

For a long minute there was silence in the kitchen. Mrs. Howland,
wiper in hand, stood looking out the window. Her lips parted, then
closed again. When she finally turned and spoke, the old smile